Kiss Me I'm Irish
by OwlinAMinor
Summary: Artemis Fowl hated holidays.  And St. Patrick's Day, he decided, was the worst of them all.  So what will this evil genius think when he finds his friends in his room, completely drunk, serenading him with Gaelic Storm's Kiss Me I'm Irish?  One-shot.


**KISS ME I'M IRISH**

**Q: How do we celebrate St. Patrick's Day here in OwlinAMinor's head?**

**A: Listening to Gaelic Storm lyrics (MY MOTHER'S BROTHER'S SISTER'S COUSIN'S AUNTIE'S UNCLE BARNEY'S FATHER'S MOTHER HAD A COUSIN FROM CALARDI!), writing everything (including my math test) in green pen, painting my nails a green-ish color, teasing the Irish people I know, and, of course... posting fan fiction!**

**This particular fan fic came about as a result of a conversation my sister and I had while listening to Kiss Me I'm Irish: I observed that the song sounded like it would be perfect sung in a bar, late at night, by a bunch of drunken Irishmen; she pointed out that all of the Artemis Fowl characters are Irish (they live in Ireland!) so that would be even funnier; I exclaimed "OMNIGOD GREAT FAN FICTION IDEA!"**

**This Disclaimer May or May Not Have Painted Itself Green: I don't own Artemis Fowl; Eoin Colfer does. Nor do I own Kiss Me I'm Irish; Gaelic Storm does. Oh, and my dad owns that quote about one Mozart sonata having more music than all of "modern music" combined...**

***Special thanks to FlyingSolo365 for introducing me to Gaelic Storm and to Kageegak for introducing me to Artemis Fowl***

***Note: This happens between books 2 and 3***

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Artemis Fowl hated holidays.

They were so … so … stupid. Pointless. Wastes of money and time. What's the objective of celebrating the birth or death of someone you don't know or care about? Now, the addition of one million pounds of gold to the Fowl family treasury … _that's_ something worth celebrating. But Christmas, Easter, Valentine's Day, Halloween … Artemis just didn't see anything he could gain from making a big deal out of these holidays.

_And St. Patrick's Day is the worst of them all,_ the young evil mastermind decided, ascending the ornate velvet-carpet staircase of Fowl Manor. It had been a long, hard day of managing the family business (also known as buying and selling some stocks, paying some smart employees, firing some lazy ones, planning his next art heist, and checking up on his parents to make sure they hadn't gone completely insane yet) for Artemis, and all he wanted to do was throw his Armani suit onto the floor and himself into bed. He was more exhausted than a computer hacker who's pulled a week's worth of all-nighters cracking the KGB database (which, contrary to popular belief, _is_ possible with the right equipment.)

Finally, Artemis reached the door to his bedroom. Fondly re-reading the sign that had dominated the door for years ("WARNING: Unauthorized entry of this room may result in death or worse"), he rotated the shiny golden doorknob and pushed the door open, revealing the darkness inside. It let out a squeak similar to that of a frightened mouse, and Artemis made a mental note to tell Juliet to replace the hinges. Strangely, the smell of alcohol wafted out into the hallway from inside the room.

Cautiously, Artemis stepped inside and clapped his hands twice, activating the lights.

His piercing azure eyes met a sight so shocking, their owner was rendered speechless. Which is rarer than the existence of a member of the male sex who doesn't enjoy playing video games.

The first things Artemis noticed were the beer cans. They littered every available surface – floor, bed, desk, dresser, night table, computers, TVs, etc – and could be found in all sizes – small, large, tiny, mammoth, medium-ish – and all types – Budweiser, Heineken, Corona, Guinness, Miller, Coors, Sam Adams, and Yuengling. Some of them weren't even finished – Artemis's first coherent thought was, _Oh no, they're going to get beer on my computer!_

The second things Artemis noticed were the people. Well, not exactly people. Some were faeries. Butler was there, as well as Juliet, Holly, Root, Mulch, and Foaly – but that wasn't too unusual. The faeries had been frequent visitors of Fowl Manor ever since the Goblin Revolution to ask for advice with everything from politics to spy missions to bets on the year's winning tree-ball team. The unusual part was what they were doing. Butler's face was contorted in a loopy grin, his previously white shirt unbuttoned, his navy blue tie untied and draped over the mahogany chair on which he lounged. Juliet, lying on her back in the center of the wood floor surrounded by empty beer cans, was nearly unrecognizable with her unkempt, matted blond hair hiding her face. Root, also in a chair, was slouched over with his helmet pressed into his LEP suit. Holly and Foaly, both on Artemis's bed (soiling his favorite blanket, the one with the money symbols on it) slouched against the back wall, eyes clothes, weird looks of contentment on their faces, LEP uniforms filthy and torn. Mulch stood on his head, supported by the right wall (likeliness of him tipping over and falling on his arse: 90%.) At first, Artemis couldn't figure out why they were all acting so strangely or why the room was full of beer cans, other assorted liquor, the sounds of idiotic giggling, and the heavy smell of alcohol. But after a minute or so of gaping at the scene like a woman who discovers her husband cheating on her with her best friend, he figured it out:

They were all drunk.

Artemis hated being drunk. No, that's inaccurate; he'd never been drunk. He hated – no, despised like Jacob fans despise Edward – the very _idea_ of being drunk. See, alcohol takes away inhibitions, and if Artemis had one fear, it was of loosing his once and only weapon: his mind.

He didn't know where they got the alcohol, and frankly, he didn't _want_ to. He was about to retreat downstairs to sleep in one of the guest rooms when they noticed him.

"Heyyyy Artemissssss," Butler slurred, absurdly happy. "Wannnnna joinnnn ussss?"

"No, thank you," the evil genius in question replied curtly. "I think I'll be going now."

"Not before we sing our song!" Holly shouted. The others nodded slowly, unable to move any faster.

"No, thank you."

"But you didn't even ask what song it is!"

"I don't care."

"Aw, come on, Arty," Juliet pleaded. (Arty? He would get her back for that the next day.) "We'll only sing it once!"

"I still don't care."

"You didn't ask what song it was," Foaly reasoned, "but we'll tell you anyway. Actually, we'll sing it for you."

"It's the one that goes," Mulch introduced, then commenced singing in a high, squeaky, raspy voice that would have sent even Justin Bieber screaming for mercy:

"_Old songs and old stories  
__They keep us alive  
__Without our past  
__We would never survive  
__I am my island, my island is me  
__So you know what you can do  
__If you don't like what you see."_

At this point, all of the other drunkards joined in with equally horrible voices. And unfortunately for the health of Artemis's eardrums, what they lacked in tunefulness, they more than made up for in enthusiasm:

"_Kiss me I'm Irish__  
__I am the Wild Rover__  
__My eyes they are smiling__  
__And I'm seldom sober__  
__I like my whiskey__  
__And I love to dance__  
__So if you're feeling as lucky as me__  
__Take a chance…"_

By now, one may be wondering: why didn't Artemis simply leave? Nobody was holding a gun to his head and forcing him to listen to his friends' dreadful rendition of Gaelic Storm's "Kiss Me I'm Irish." In fact, there was no place in the world Artemis would have less liked to be at that moment. Besides the fact that he was stuck in a room full of drunks, Artemis couldn't abide Irish music. Or pop music. Or rap music. Or rock music. Or punk music. Or … well, any music written after 1900. He was of the opinion that one Mozart sonata contains more music than all of "modern music" combined.

The reason Artemis hadn't yet run screaming into the bathroom was very simple: blackmail. You see, when Mulch began to sing, this evil genius had pulled out his cell phone, opened the camera feature, and pressed "record." One never will know when one may need blackmail, and what better blackmail than the threat of posting a video of someone singing badly and drunkenly on the internet?

At any rate, by this point, Holly and Juliet were trying (and failing) to create a sort of singing harmony with Juliet's soprano and Holly's alto:

"_And kiss me I'm Irish  
__My Heart beats a jig  
__And me blood it flows green  
__I've been a rogue and a rambler  
__From ocean to sea.  
__And I like a 'bevy', now and then,  
__That I'll never deny  
__But I only drink on the days of the week  
__That end with a 'Y'!"_

Butler took over then, with a voice like that creepy voice you hear right before you die:

"_I'm no saint, I'm no sinner,  
__Of that there's no doubt.  
__I'll tell ya the truth, I am the one  
__That your grandmother warned you about!"_

Everyone once again joined in for the chorus:

"_Kiss me I'm Irish__  
__I am the Wild Rover__  
__My eyes they are smiling__  
__And I'm seldom sober__  
__I like my whiskey__  
__And I love to dance__  
__So if you're feeling as lucky as me__  
__Take a chance…"_

Root then sang the next part, his voice grating on Artmis's ears like a knife on metal but somehow not bothering the others:

"_And kiss me I'm Irish  
__Dublin, Milwaukee,  
__Cleveland and Cork  
__Kerry, Chicago,  
__Armagh and New York"_

With a whinny so horse-like it could have come from an actual horse, Foaly sang the last part:

"_Belfast and Boston,  
__Donegal and DC  
__Raise your glasses and sing,  
__Sing, sing with me!"_

Everyone (except Artemis, whose fingers were starting to hurt from holding the "record" button down for so long) grabbed a bottle of whiskey from a case set on top of Artemis's best computer and drained it before launching into one final chorus:

"_Kiss me I'm Irish__  
__I am the Wild Rover__  
__My eyes they are smiling__  
__And I'm seldom sober__  
__I like my whiskey__  
__And I love to dance__  
__So if you're feeling as lucky as me__  
__Take a chance…"_

Having gathered enough blackmail to last a few decades, Artemis let go of the "record" button, flipped his silvery phone closed, and slid it into his suit pocket. Sighing, he internally prepared himself to give his friends a piece of his mind (but not literally – that would be disgusting.) Drunkenness was something he simply _would not tolerate_ in his family's manor, much less in his room. Even if it was St. Patrick's Day, day of celebration of green, leprechauns, gold, and all things Irish, alcohol was not allowed. Actually, especially _because_ it was St. Patrick's Day, alcohol waas not allowed.

"First of all, alcohol can kill you. Second, it's illegal for minors." - he glared at Juliet – "Third, it takes away inhibition. If someone broke into the house while you were drinking, how would you defend yourselves? Fourth, you're all cleaning this up in the morning. And fifth … fifth, I wouldn't kiss any of you drunken idiots, no matter how Irish you are."

The anger of a bear whose cubs were just brutally murdered in front of her wouldn't even compare to the anger of Artemis Fowl at that moment. Face contorted in a scowl, voice raised, body shaking, pointer finger suspended in midair, he waited for a reaction to his lecture.

Which he got, although it wasn't what he'd anticipated.

Applause broke out, amid cheers of "Yay, Arty!" and "Best lecture ever!" and "I'll never drink again!" and "Why won't you kiss me? I thought what we had was special!" (The last was replied to with, "It's not, and it never will be, so shut up, Holly.") Butler even fell over the back of his chair and onto the floor in a massive heap, such was the extent of his excitement.

_This is going to happen again next year, isn't it?_ Artemis thought wearily. With a sigh, he backed out of the room and closed the door, leaving the drunken idiots inside to their alcohol.

Five minutes later, he was snoring.

* * *

"Artemis? Someone hit me in the head. Did you kill him, Artemis? Did you?"

"Holly, I don't know what you did, but everything hurts, and it's all your fault."

"I'm injured, and, as everyone knows, the only way to recover properly is with food. BRING OUT THE BACON!"

"I will not show pain. I will not show pain. I will not show pain. DOMOVOI, I'M SHOWING PAIN!"

"Why is everyone complaining? This doesn't hurt at al – OWOWOWOWOWOW!"

"If it hurts _this_ much to move my toe, and I have to move my foot, which is ten times the size of my toe, twenty times to get to my foil hat … it'll be … hmm … 200 times the pain. And then if I have to move one hundred times that far to find my carrots, it'll be 2,000 times the pain. Sometimes, I really wish I wasn't a genius. This is one of them. Ow."

_It's going to be a long morning._

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_**Reviews are much appreciated!**

**(Besides, I send Artemis and a few nukes to torture you if you don't review... just kidding. Maybe.)**


End file.
